


they'll think of me kindly

by iamnassau



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Autistic George Hodgson, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Guilt, but rather a post-canon break it, i was gonna say this has a hopeful ending but it really doesn't, this is not a post-canon fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25735057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnassau/pseuds/iamnassau
Summary: He sits at his small dining table, the oak wood cool under his palms, and lets himself recall these past few months with fondness. He has only been harassed over his promotion, and over the prospect that he may captain a ship sooner than later. For that, he’s thankful. Few questions are about the cold, the loss, or the decisions that singe his edges even now. In fact, he is only recognized in public by fellow ship’s men, who catch his eye and smile, but almost never approach. The admiraltycongratulatedhim.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	they'll think of me kindly

**Author's Note:**

> here's something a little different from me. i was possessed to write this and banged it out in like 2 days
> 
> please heed the warnings and enjoy (?)
> 
> also yes the title is a mitski lyric.... listen

_ May 19th, 1850 _

Edward returns his coat to its proper hook at the door after mailing his letters off at the post. The process took longer than expected, but still he is glad that he’s been able to complete all his errands for the day. He’s finished his book and the paperwork he’d been dreading after much thought and consideration. And those letters, which he wrote feverishly upon waking from a dream in the early morning hours, have been sent in a timely enough manner. For once, he feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Crozier and Jopson- living at the same address for now until their careers come back into focus- will get their letters first. Then Hodgson, then his family, then Irving.

He visited with Crozier early in the week, enjoying the spring air as an unexpected guest. Jopson had even sat down with them instead of hovering as stewards are wont to do, and the three of them enjoyed tea in Crozier’s handsome Chelsea townhouse. Why he chose the area, Edward may never know, but he makes regular rounds to the house, walking from his own flat in Kensington to meet them for the only mundane occasions he is allowed to have. Sometimes Captain Fitzjames, Mr. Blanky, or Miss Sophia Cracroft will join them, the latter of whom still looks at Crozier as though he will vanish into thin air. It’s been quite a long time for that, in Edward’s estimation.

Truthfully, it’s been no time at all, which is a revelation he’s just coming around to.

The fact that he’s still having dreams about it is proof enough. This morning, the image that tormented him was of Captain Crozier, swaying in his cabin, handing him the gun. His pistol. Edward’s own pistol. “Here. Take this. Take it,” he says, voice warbling as it did when he admitted his vice to them then. Edward does not like to remember it, and woke up in a panic, grabbing the last stack of parchment he had and calming only enough to write with a steady hand.

He sits at his small dining table, the oak wood cool under his palms, and lets himself recall these past few months with fondness. He has only been harassed over his promotion, and over the prospect that he may captain a ship sooner than later. For that, he’s thankful. Few questions are about the cold, the loss, or the decisions that singe his edges even now. In fact, he is only recognized in public by fellow ship’s men, who catch his eye and smile, but almost never approach. The admiralty  _ congratulated  _ him.

“This is a good thing,” Jopson told him once with a small, hopeful smile. “They don’t know you.”

Edward had sighed- it was March, still too cold to sit outside for long, and Crozier had stepped away from the parlor as he was called upon by a maid. “No, they don’t. I am glad of that.” He didn’t say it then, but he does wish they knew more of Jopson. The man wouldn’t enjoy that attention, but he would deserve it. He swallowed the sentiment and leaned down to pet Crozier’s new dog. 

The two of them, once captain and steward, now head of house and valet, always seem to him quintessentially the same as before the expedition. In contrast, Edward’s own hazily-defined role does not suit him in cobblestone as it did in sailcloth. He’s frequently wished to move in with them, if only to work for Crozier as well, if only to have something to do with himself. 

If only to feel as though he’s returned to something.

On that thought, he gets up to fetch a bottle of scotch that his dear brother James gifted him when he visited family in Jersey. It’s been neglected, but he feels that a strong drink is necessary on this day of all days. He only takes one glass, tips it into his mouth, and needlessly pours another in quick succession. Then he sits back down with his newspaper. This issue is from months back, the battered returning crew is the front-page story. There’s a daguerreotype of all of them, after the mutineers had been hauled off, every face staring at the reader in abject misery. Yes, they all smile, clean-shaven. But he knows the worst of that day. 

He draws his pointer finger over the image, finding and naming most of the pictured men, including himself- barely visible in the back behind Le Vesconte and Weekes. He finds other Terror men, but there’s one missing in between their hunched silhouettes. He knows why, at least.

The clock strikes noon. It must be two in the afternoon then, as his flat came with an improperly-set grandfather clock that he just hasn’t had the time to repair.

This past visit, Jopson had asked if Edward would like to come with him and the two captains to Oxfordshire in late August when the hunting season starts. They would be seeking pheasants, primarily. But Edward imagined that Fitzjames and himself might prefer foxes.

“I would like that very much,” he’d replied, gentle and earnest as anything. He’s thought about it all week. He wants to, almost considers walking out of his flat the three kilometers to the Crozier household to tell Jopson how beautiful it will be when they do. Summer giving way to a cool and sunny autumn, the leaves rustling around them like chimes, and the silence of the woods being such a different silence than that of the Arctic, a silence that would make him weep.

But he doesn’t. He sits at his small table and listens to his broken clock alone.

_ May 27th _

John sits on the very edge of his bed, preparing for sleep. The darkness and silence keep him company if he allows himself to see it that way. He does, on occasion. The room had been a gift from the kind reverend of Balerno, where he now resides, and he  _ is _ grateful. Grateful that he may still loiter by the Water of Leith without putting his own family out a room. That’s why he hasn’t returned to his childhood home. For fear that they will feel obligated to board him. Most times, he allows himself to see it that way.

He is grateful for the chance to remake himself alone and out of sight. But his father is dead, and he must pay his respects at the wake tomorrow morning. No time to traverse the river beforehand unless he sleeps well and early tonight, and that’s nearly out of the question. Maybe if he had gone back to Portsmouth instead, he’d have more of an excuse to be late. But it’s unthinkable; he physically cringes at the idea as though it’s a train screeching to a halt on the tracks. He may never return to the sea or even the coast and its cheery blue horizon. No, the water here in Edinburgh is enough for him. He can see the end of it.

John pities the crew members still in England for how they must be hounded. Someone must have told the story, whatever there was left of a story to tell, because the mutineers were swiftly executed. So swiftly, that he’d been notified of their hangings in the newspaper on the day his carriage arrived in Edinburgh. This was after his cowardly desertion upon the rescue ship’s arrival at Greenhithe, where he’d all but ran off the dock. He hadn’t spoken to anyone for the entire journey, and he didn’t say any goodbyes then either. Crozier writes to him on occasion, and he responds cordially, both of them carefully avoiding the topic of his immoral departure. Hodgson, as well. They talk about the rain, their dogs, and current political faux pas in London. John’s replies are few and far between, but he enjoys the letters, truly. He reads them during morning service, which he no longer attends.

Aside from that, he hasn’t engaged with any of the others since. The shame and regret hinders him from doing so. Strangely, he finds that the people he would most like to speak with are dead. It’s only proper as he had sinned against so many of them in that place. Some even survived to see jolly old England once again. If he’d been braver, he might have been able to reach Gibson and Manson before they were whisked off for a court-martial. But he hadn’t. As he fled Ross’ ship, he’d hardly the time to catch any witnesses, but Lord help him if he hadn’t felt Hickey’s eyes on his back, penetrating coat and shirtsleeves and flesh. 

He imagines that Hickey- no, not Cornelius Hickey, he recalls: the man who had come in his stead as Crozier confirmed- would have smiled at the gallows and rocked back on his heels, saying nothing. And perhaps they would mask him out of decency, but beneath the hood he might still be smiling, eyes lidded in relief.

God rest his soul. John senses those eyes on him now and opens his window.

Between that feeling, along with mental preparation for his father’s funeral, he’s forgotten all about the unread letter in his hand. One other memory who has tried to cross paths with him again. Lieutenant Little. The letter was received days ago, but he’s been avoiding it.

He slices through the envelope and shudders at the noise of it in his near silent room. Under moonlight, the ink is deep and clean, as always in Edward’s hand.

_ Dear Sir, _

_ I take up my pen after much time spent prone in the bureau to write you. It is five years to the day we left Greenhithe, and only perhaps several months since we returned on HM ship Enterprise. I feel the anniversary keenly, and reach out for solidarity in this, despite my lacking correspondence since that journey. What events we have lived through together only to be scattered to the winds now! I will not bore you with my excuses for why it has taken so long for me to sit down and write you, but I sense that you will understand.  _

_ John, I hope you won’t mind my saying that I was not surprised by your holy lodgings. I wish you happiness there. While I’ve never visited Edinburgh, I have wanted to. To visit the river and find myself washed clean by it. Any trip may have to be put off, as my current situation is ever-changing, but I’m thinking of you. I see the Captain and our very own Arctic-made Lieut. often in the city, and some of the Erebus fellows as well, but for the most part, we are in hiding. Again, you understand. _

_ Do not feel haste in replying to this; just a fancy that I had the compulsion to send off. Relay well wishes to your father and brothers for me. And of course, I hope the Balerno parish is treating you with the kindness you deserve.  _

_ Ever your obliging friend, _

_ Lt Cdr Edward Little _

John is warmed by the thought, the generosity that the letter entails, and he steels himself to write back tomorrow if he can find it in him. But only if he gets sleep, and only if the horses are fast tomorrow morning.

He slips the letter back into its envelope and into the bedside drawer beside his family Bible. Briefly John considers a prayer as he lies down to sleep, but he decides against it and pulls the bedlinens up over his shoulders as if that will protect him instead.

  
  


_ May 28th _

Downstairs, the kettle erupts into sound like a foghorn, and he obligingly awakes. George’s mornings have been difficult as of late with how heavily he sleeps. His sister overindulges him, explaining that he must be catching up, and he never finds it in himself to argue.

He calls for his valet and dresses to meet her for tea. But when he ambles down the stairwell into the dining hall, he realizes that he is alone aside from the maid who brings in a breakfast tray. 

“Mrs. Smith and Miss Frances have gone out shopping for the day,” she explains, having anticipated his surprise.

“Ah, yes. Of course. She told me so,” he says in reply, mostly to himself. “Well thank you for preparing a late serving for me.” He thinks he might say this every morning, but nobody ever comments if they think it’s strange. George has found himself quite repetitive when unchecked, and he hasn’t been corrected once since his return. No doubt for fear of offending him, or sending him into an episode of madness. That seems unlikely. Still, they dance around him. He dances around himself, on occasion, a concept that makes him laugh gently over his plate of scones. Luckily no one is in the room to chatter to his sister about his deranged tendencies and suchlike.

They do not know the half of it.

He contemplates the house, his sister’s estate in Westminster- a paradise that she and her husband plan on selling. It makes sense, all of their children having flown the coop but two. They don’t need such lavish quarters any longer, but he can’t imagine leaving such a place. Unfortunately, he’ll have to. Either following them or finding his own place. George sighs and takes his teacup in hand so as to migrate toward the parlor. There is his harpsichord, kindly moved from his parents’ home to this one before he’d even begun boarding with Henrietta. He smiles to think that she was so eager to billet him, as she said, wringing her gloved hands on that first day he’d returned, that the instrument had been waiting there for him since 1847. He enjoys it just as much as he used to, and owes to it the speedy recovery of his dexterity. To think, during that first month back in England, he could hardly hold a beer mug!

The shakiness had deeply disturbed him then, although he knew the cause. He spent every waking minute of that September dreading a knock on his sister’s door, and on the other side, the London authorities preparing to order him hanged.

“ _ Lieutenant Hodgson was kidnapped along with Messrs. Diggle and Goodsir _ ,” Crozier’s erroneous statement read. George had rocked violently in his seat at the Admiralty when it was read aloud to him, but they must not have seen his agitation for the confession it was. He couldn’t speak, and he didn’t. He didn’t say anything that day, or at the execution the following morning, or for the next week. 

The particular guilt that prevails in his heart, joining the mutiny in the first place or surviving in silence, depends on the day. Today, he’s ruminating on Edmund Hoar’s cries as they fastened the nooses. Sometimes in his memories, they are all quiet, but he knows that’s not the truth. 

In the midst of all his contemplation, the present knock at the door is so faint, he almost figures he’s imagined it, but it comes again, and the girls’ maid, Sarah, comes to get it. George carefully places his teacup on the lidded harpsichord, his hands beginning to shake again.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m with the Post Office. Does a George Henry Hodgson live at this address?” George rushes to the door, relieved by his announcement. Not the Admiralty then. He nods. “I have a message for you, sir.” The postman hands him one of his own letters, the address and recipient in his scrawl. Sarah excuses herself. 

“Does Mr. Little not live in this building anymore?” After all, he had said that his situation was volatile. George pockets the letter.

“The recipient is deceased. I delivered it, and the proprietress told me that he’d shot himself. I wanted to inform you as it was quite recent that anyone found him.” He blinks, wordless, and they stand like that until the postman twists his head to either side as if he thinks George is looking at someone else. “Sir?”

“Did she say anything else?”

He shifts on his feet. “She said… the police estimate it happened a week back, though of course, they don’t know what date exactly. And they found a bottle of liquor beside him. She speculated he’d been drinking. And that he… did it in the day, so nobody was there to hear- I’m sorry, I don’t know anything else. Perhaps if you know his family…”

George shakes his head. “Right. Well, thank you.” He closes the door stiffly, almost before he’s finished giving thanks, and steps away from it. The letter weighs heavy in his coat pocket. He knows what the date was. He knows Edward hadn’t been drinking. He turns back to his tea and rubs the cup’s smooth ridges for comfort, trying to manage both shock and expectation. Perhaps he deduced it from the commander’s first letter and just refused to let it register. He thinks of the time he’d spent agonizing over how to reply before finally resolving to tell him the truth. That he joined Hickey at the end of it all. It doesn’t suit him, burying things so deep. All the while Edward hadn’t gotten the chance to read it, and never would.

_ That’s it then, isn’t it _ , he thinks, throwing the letter into the hearth fire.  _ Something else that will never be exhumed. _

**Author's Note:**

> some historical notes:  
> \- john irving's father died on may 26th, 1850 (and he was really from edinburgh)  
> \- the enterprise was a rescue ship captained by james clark ross to find the lost expedition in 1848 (alongside the investigator) but was obviously unsuccessful  
> \- hodgson's sister was henrietta mildred smith, who i recently learned was queen elizabeth ii's great-great-grandmother
> 
> anyway!! wow this was sad. my tumblr is awretchlikeyou.tumblr.com so come yell at me if u want. thanks for reading!


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